


Grin and Bear It

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Blood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Misunderstandings, Self-Worth Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 15:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12256977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: The third sign of trouble is that Prompto's lying on the ground, curled up on his side, clutching his thigh and writhing in pain.As he watches, Noctis fumbles a potion from his pocket. He holds his hand above the injured leg and crushes the bottle; liquid patters out onto the flesh with a flash of magic, but if Prompto is aware of it, he makes no indication. Now that Ignis is closer, he can hear the noises Prompto's making: soft whimpers that come with every outward breath."It's not working," says Noct, as soon as Ignis is in hearing distance. "This is the second one I've tried. It's like he can't even feel a difference."





	Grin and Bear It

**Author's Note:**

> I started filling this ages ago on the meme, then forgot I was working on it halfway and wandered off to do other things. I remembered it again, suddenly, like two weeks ago and was like, "Oh, crap, I never finished writing that!" So I finished writing it. Sorry for the delay. ^^

Prompto's sitting on a log, poking at the hole in his jeans.

It's an ugly one, a jagged tear in the calf area – and that's not all that got torn. Up until about two minutes ago, Prompto's leg had a hole to match, raw and bloody, damn near down to the bone.

It says a lot about their lives, these days, that it's not even the first time this week he's been so badly injured. 

Some days, Noct thinks his best friend would have been better off without him. Some days, when the guilt's particularly strong – when he has to crouch over Prompto's battered body with a wisp of feather and breathe life back into him with magic – Noct wishes he'd never dragged Prompto along on what was supposed to be a road trip to a wedding. He'd be back in Insomnia, then. Or among the refugees in Lestallum, at least. He wouldn't be out fighting voreteeth every day, almost getting his leg torn off.

"That was a rough one," says Noct, as he circles around to set himself down on the log by Prompto.

Prompto jerks – takes his hand away from the hole in his pants, like he's guilty he's been caught. "Yeah, tell me about it," he laughs. "I'm gonna have to borrow Iggy's sewing kit again."

"You're getting more use out of that thing than he is," says Noct. "You keep it up, he's gonna expect me to do my own mending."

"Nah," says Prompto, grinning. "You're safe. He already knows you're lazy." 

Noct fixes him with a look that he hopes is cool and decidedly ominous. "Oh, am I?"

Prompto yelps and laughs when Noct pokes him in the ticklish spot just under the ribs, trying to squirm away. "Quit it, dude!"

Noct lets himself get shoved out of range – gives Prompto a minute to finish up the breathless laughter. Then he says, determinedly casual. "Seriously, though, Prom. Lately you've been going through potions like candy. How bout toning it down?"

He's lost track of the number of times he's glanced over mid-fight to see Prompto on the front lines, struggling with the kickback on that massive circular saw instead of hanging back and fighting ranged. He's got less than two weeks of training under his belt – barely knows how to block a sword or take a fall. 

Prompto's braver than hell, but every time Noct glances over and sees him there, right in the thick of it, his heart kind of does a slow-motion flip and kicks into high gear.

The smile flickers on Prompto's face, and he huffs a small, self-deprecating sort of laugh. "Yeah," he says. "Guess it's been a bad week, huh?" 

"More like a bad month." Noct nudges him. "So cut it out, okay?"

And Prompto says: "Yeah, sure. You got it."

 

* * *

 

The table outside the camper is plastic, white and dingy, with a crack running through one side. It holds a steaming cup of Ebony and a notebook, full of neat rows of numbers in Ignis' handwriting: small, square, painstakingly tidy.

Ignis leans down to scratch another set of figures in beside all the rest.

It will be an hour, at least, before his traveling companions see fit to join the waking world. Of late, he finds that the early morning hours, sky still grey and sun not quite risen, are the only quiet times he can find.

He lifts his cup, and he takes a sip of his coffee: bracingly strong, rich with cream. Then he bends to the task before him, losing himself for a few minutes in numbers and plans and careful considerations for the future.

A few minutes is all the time he gets. Prompto pushes open the door to the camper and clomps down the steps shortly after, hair askew and still yawning.

"Morning, Iggy," he says, and deposits himself on the chair opposite. He immediately stretches out on the table, head on his arms, like a bored, undisciplined child at a restaurant.

"Good morning," Ignis says, absently, and checks the numbers again. "You're up early today."

Prompto shrugs, a gesture that lifts his entire head, given his current position. "Weird dreams." He pokes a finger toward the notebook. "New recipe?"

Ignis feels the corner of his mouth curl up into a smile. "Nothing so exciting, I'm afraid. It's our budget."

"We've got a budget?" says Prompto, and perks up a little. He straightens, then makes a grabbing motion with one of his hands. Ignis sighs softly and indulges, sliding the notebook his way. "Man," says Prompto, after a beat, looking it over. "Guess it's time for a hunt or five, huh?"

"Indeed," says Ignis.

Something in the budget seems to catch Prompto's eye. He frowns down at the page before him, mild disposition eclipsed briefly by a furrowed brow. Then he straightens and pushes the notebook back across the table toward Ignis.

"Well," he says. "Have at it, dude."

He makes a show of standing and stretching, turning back toward the door of the camper.

"I'm gonna make some coffee," he says, reaching for the handle. "You want another cup?"

Prompto may be a disastrous force of nature in the kitchen, but he can be taught. The first time he managed to turn perfectly good coffee beans into sludge as thick as motor oil, Ignis had sat the boy down and showed him how to make a proper cup.

He's been remarkably consistent since then, so Ignis feels safe in replying, "A refill wouldn't go amiss."

"Sure thing," says Prompto. "One coffee, coming up."

He's back about five minutes later, swapping the empty cup out for the full one. Ignis is too preoccupied with the budget to notice he hasn't made any for himself.

 

* * *

 

It's been a hell of a day.

If Gladio's honest, it's been a hell of a week.

Whenever they're low on funds, Iggy breaks out the proverbial whip – signs them up for as many hunts as they can get their hands on. So they've been through a herd of mesmenirs and a handful of anaks. They've cut their way through enough flan to make Noct shudder and swear he's going to puke next time he sees pot de crème on a restaurant menu.

And now here they are, sitting pretty over a whole pack of downed voreteeth, watching as the blood soaks slowly into the dusty ground of the Weaverwilds.

The things put up a damn good fight.

One at a time, they don't amount to much, but if you get enough of anything together in one place, they start posing more of a challenge. Toward the end, exhausted by the sheer numbers, Gladio'd been happy to see the last one go down. You can only dodge ugly, snapping jaws so long, and man, does getting bitten by one of these things suck. The poison always seems to take up shop and linger.

Still, they're done now. And even better, they've got a tidy payday coming. Gladio's about due for a new sword, and he knows Iggy chipped the blade on one of his daggers last week.

Longwythe's just up the road, too – and no way are Noct and Prompto gonna let them pass it by without clamoring for a hotel room.

Gladio plans on giving them a hard time about it for old times' sake, but even he's ready for a shower and a real bed, at this point. They've been two weeks camping, and much as he loves that tent, he's ready to give it a rest for a night.

He slings his sword up over one shoulder – lets it fade away in a cascade of blue light.

When he turns toward the car, he catches sight of Prompto leaning up against one of the boulders that dot the landscape here, jutting up out of the ground like half-buried behemoth bones. The kid's shoulders are hunched, arms folded in front of him the way he gets when they're about ready to crawl into a cave full of nasties. He looks about ready to be sick, honestly.

"What," Gladio says, taking in the sight, "no pictures this time?"

Prompto gives him a smile, but it's the pale version of the ones he usually flashes, no real energy behind it. "Nah," he says. "Lighting's all wrong."

Gladio glances him over again, longer this time. "You hanging in there? Need a potion or something?"

Prompto looks at him for a second – blinks, like he's just seeing him for the first time. He says, "You know me," and the smile this time has a little more life behind it. "Just want to get out of the desert, you know? Feels like I'm melting."

Gladio snorts. "I hear ya. Could do with about three pitchers of ice water about now."

"Hey," comes Noct's voice, from a ways off toward the car. "You guys coming, or what?"

Gladio glances up toward the Regalia – takes in the sight of two figures in silhouette beside it, one casual, the other a study in perfect posture.

"There in a jiffy!" Prompto calls back, and unfolds himself from the rock.

But he takes his time getting back to the car, pace less a jog and more a determined walk.

The heat really must be getting to him.

 

* * *

 

"Last call," says Noct, standing in the doorway. "You sure you don't want fries?"

He glances back into the hotel room, where Prompto's lying flopped out on the bed, stomach down, head buried in a pillow. He looks like that potted fern Noct had when he first moved out of the Citadel – the one that sat on the windowsill in his apartment, gathering dust, until it finally withered for lack of care. If Prompto was a plant, his leaves would be brittle and dry; his feet have been dragging all day, and he hasn't budged since they rented the room.

"I'm good, dude," says Prompto. "Think I need a nap or something. You guys go on."

Noct stands there for a minute in the doorway, considering. He takes in the bit of Prompto's face he can see, around the fabric of the pillow: pale, and sheened with sweat.

Maybe his stomach's weird again. He never wants to eat when it gets bad. It comes and goes in waves, Noct knows – and mostly, Prompto takes his meds and rides it out. 

In high school, he used to skip lunch and hide away in the band room until it passed sometimes. Noctis spent more than a couple of afternoons there, in the quiet dark of the storage area, providing company while Prompto tipped his head back and leaned against the wall and just breathed, slow and steady.

Noct hesitates, looking back at him. He can't remember the last time it was bad enough to lay Prompto out flat.

"We going, or what?" says Gladio, from the hall.

"Yeah," says Noct. "Sure."

But Prompto hasn't moved. He looks very small, lying there like that, all his usual nervous energy gone still.

"We're gonna head out," says Noct. "I've got my phone on me, though. Text if you change your mind about the fries, kay?"

One of Prompto's arms lifts up off the stiff, dark fabric of the comforter. He gives a thumbs up, and then his hand flops back to the bed.

 

* * *

 

The first sign of trouble is Prompto screaming.

Ignis has his lance buried in a garula's flank at the time, so he hesitates to turn and look; twisting that far round will expose him to an unfortunate close encounter with a pair of quite formidable tusks.

Noct has their few remaining potions, and he's rather adept at combat first aid, besides. His warp abilities lend themselves to the task, allowing him to maneuver on the battlefield with remarkable ease.

So Ignis says, "Noct, would you be so kind? It sounds like Prompto could use a hand," and he carries on with the fight.

The second sign of trouble is Noct saying, "Rise and shine, buddy." He pauses a moment. Then, a bit more strained, he says, "Prompto?"

It's not a promising tone. It's the sort of tone that Noctis has spent his life suppressing, always wary of the ever-watchful media. It's the sort of tone he hides behind a mask of indifference, as often as he's able.

Ignis knows an unexpected complication when he hears one. He lets the lance fade out to crystal brilliance, replaces it with a dagger, and sheaths the blade in the garula's eye. The tip digs deep. The beast screams and kicks, and topples sideways in a clumsy crush of limbs.

Then Ignis turns to assist his king.

The third sign of trouble is that Prompto's lying on the ground, curled up on his side, clutching his thigh and writhing in pain.

As he watches, Noctis fumbles a potion from his pocket. He holds his hand above the injured leg and crushes the bottle; liquid patters out onto the flesh with a flash of magic, but if Prompto is aware of it, he makes no indication. Now that Ignis is closer, he can hear the noises Prompto's making: soft whimpers that come with every outward breath.

"It's not working," says Noct, as soon as Ignis is in hearing distance. "This is the second one I've tried. It's like he can't even feel a difference."

Troubling, if true.

Especially troubling, as they currently have no elixirs.

Still: a potion ought to work. They serve well enough, when the damage is recent. Leaving a wound to fester or allowing it to bleed for too long is a sure way to require a more thorough curative, but Prompto's only just been injured.

"Prompto," says Ignis. "I'm going to need to see the wound."

Prompto scarcely reacts. He clutches his leg tighter, and hunches his shoulders in. There are tears on his cheeks.

Noct's pouring out a hi-potion onto the wounded leg, now, but it seems to make no impact at all. "The hell's wrong with this batch?" he says, half frantic. "Did I get the spell wrong?"

Ignis sets a hand on his shoulder, stilling him. "Perhaps we'd best employ a tactical retreat."

Noct nods, unnerved. Then he calls: "Gladio, fall back! We're getting out of here!"

Ignis kneels in the thick of combat, trusting his king to have his back. He slips a hand below Prompto's shoulders and one below his knees, and he lifts, smooth and steady.

Up close, he can see that Prompto's entire pant leg is stained with blood, although perhaps the hi-potion did something, after all. The wound plainly still pains the boy, but at least the bleeding seems to have stopped.

"The hell're you guys doing?" Gladio's saying, as he falls back to their position. "We're almost done – let's just finish em off."

Then he gets a look at Prompto, lying pale and pained in Ignis' arms, and Ignis sees the understanding flicker across his face. "Get moving," he says. "I'll hold them off."

Ignis doesn't need any more encouragement.

He doesn't stop until they've reached the car again, well distant of the creatures they'd sought an easy bounty from. "Noct," he says, and Noct's scrambling ahead of him already, pulling open the back door.

Ignis sets Prompto down, gently, across the seats. "Prompto," he says. "We're going to need to have a look at that wound. Do you understand?"

But Prompto's not conscious any longer. At some point during the return trip, he quietly passed out in Ignis' arms. He's lying limp and pallid against the black leather seats, and Ignis just has time to think, with a flash of regret, that they're going to have to have the Regalia reupholstered.

It's a thought for another time. There are far more important things to concern himself over, at the moment.

Ignis shoves the front passenger seat all the way forward so that he can climb in beside Prompto, and he peels away a flap of shredded denim so that he can get a closer look at the wound.

It's hideous. 

It looks as though a garula caught him through the meaty portion of the thigh with a tusk, then twisted its head away. The point went deep and tore outward; it looks like nothing so much as a crater filled with partially congealed blood, stringy segments of torn muscle, and the flash of white bone, there at the bottom, just peeking through.

The sight makes him feel vaguely ill. Beside him, he's aware that Noct's gone a sickly shade of grey.

Footsteps herald Gladio's arrival, and the first thing he says is, "How is he?"

"Not well, I'm afraid."

To say the wound is daunting is an understatement. It's not bleeding any longer, thanks to the potion, but it hasn't closed in the slightest. It's still an unsightly mess, to say nothing of the pain it must be causing.

Still, bleeding or no, they ought to cover it. Leaving it exposed will only invite infection, and that will make a bad situation worse.

With steady hands, Ignis unbuckles Prompto's belt and works his jeans down over his hips. "Some assistance, please? Gently."

Noct eases his boots off, then lifts both legs, with infinite care, so that Ignis can slide the pants down the rest of the way.

The injured thigh is a frightful mess, but that's not what gives Ignis pause. No, it's all the rest that draws him up short and makes the breath catch in his throat.

"Oh, Astrals," says Noct, softly.

"What the _hell_?" growls Gladio

It's a fair question.

Prompto's left calf is a deep black-purple, an open split in the skin down the center from the impact. There around the edges, though, it's beginning to fade to sickly green. He has a bitemark just below his right knee, the teeth forming a perfect set of puncture wounds; a voretooth, unless Ignis misses his guess. The skin around the bite's gone grey and wrinkled, a sign that the poison's still in effect, but the wound's not bleeding any longer, and the jagged edges have begun to curl in as Prompto's body attempts to heal. In addition to the fresher injuries, there are bruises in old parchment yellow, faded almost to nothing, and cuts that have already begun to scab.

This isn't from a single fight. Unless Ignis misses his guess, this damage goes back for weeks.

Small wonder the potions won't work. It's practically an intervention of the Astrals that Prompto was on his feet at all.

Ignis' hands are steady when he reaches for an antidote, but it's an effort to keep them from trembling. He's running through the numbers in his mind, tallying earnings and subtracting expenses. Suddenly, he wishes they hadn't splurged quite so much on new weaponry. An elixir is out of reach, and he's not entirely sure Prompto will hang on long enough for them to make up the rest of the gil.

He uncaps the bottle, and he pours the liquid out over the voretooth bite, relieved when the skin fades from mottled grey to healthy pink. The area around the wound is still inflamed from the damage, but at the very least, Prompto isn't fighting off poison in his blood any longer.

"He needs a medical facility," says Ignis, quietly. "But in the meantime, bandages will have to suffice. Gladio?"

Without a word, Gladio circles around to the trunk and retrieves the first aid kit.

"How did we miss something like this?" says Noct, voice tight and guilty. "Why didn't he _say_ anything?"

Ignis thinks back on an early morning, sipping coffee and attending to their finances, and he thinks he knows.

"Cause he's a godsdamn idiot," says Gladio. "That's why. The hell was he thinking?"

Ignis smears the wounds with disinfectant. He wraps the bandages, smooth and steady, around the gaping hole in Prompto's thigh, and then he covers up the voretooth bite. He's almost afraid to wonder whether the shirt hides more of the same.

"We can ask him when he's awake," says Ignis, and snaps the first aid kit closed again. "In the meantime, we'd best be on our way."

 

* * *

 

Hospitals suck.

They're the place you go when you can't do anything to help anymore. They're the place you go when everything's out of your hands.

Gladio watches as the nurses load Prompto up onto a rolling bed and wheel him away. He stares down the hall, and he grinds his teeth together, and he tells himself that kicking one of the waiting room chairs isn't going to help anything.

Hell if he doesn't want to do it anyway.

Noct's got this look on his face, the closed-off one he always pulls when he doesn't want to deal with something. His arms are folded, and his eyes are fixed at a point on the wall.

Ignis still has smears of blood on his hands. It's seeped into the texture on his fancy driving gloves. He hasn't even noticed; he's grim and somber, like this is some diplomatic crisis.

"Okay," says Gladio. "How're we doing this?"

It takes Noct a minute, to surface from whatever depth he's sunk to in his own mind. "Doing what?"

"Raising funds for Prompto's stay, I'd imagine," Ignis says. He tips his head to one side, like a hawk – probably running figures in his head. "If we sell what we've collected on our hunts, we should have enough to pay the hospital staff. With any luck, we'll have enough left over for an elixir or two."

Gladio's nodding. "Then we get Prom back on his feet and get out of here."

"Sounds like a plan," says Noct. "I'll leave you two to it."

Gladio snorts. "Kind of a bad time to get lazy, princess." He knows he shouldn't be goading, not now, but he can't help it. He's mad – at the whole situation, and at Prompto's stupid sense of self-sufficiency, and most of all at himself.

He noticed. He godsdamned _noticed_ , and he didn't even think to press harder.

He sees the line of Noct's jaw go tight – that stubborn, deflecting posture he only ever gets when things are going wrong.

Iggy must see it, too, because he says, "Perhaps it would be better for someone to be here, when Prompto wakes up."

Astrals be damned, Gladio knows that. Maybe he knew it all along.

Suddenly, though, he's mad at Ignis, too, for killing that fight before he could start it. It would be easier to get into a shouting match with Noct than it is to stand here feeling useless.

"Yeah," Gladio says, swallowing down the impulse to say something else, instead. "Keep an eye on him."

Better than we did before, he doesn't add.

 

* * *

 

Ow, thinks Prompto.

Because really: ow.

Even staying still hurts, and gods forbid he actually want to breathe. Breathing seems to have its own pain scale now. They're gonna need a whole different chart with increasingly upset smiley faces, because he's pretty sure that garula broke a rib or five when it threw him.

He just needs a second to pull it together. Just a second.

Then he'll get up, and get his gun up off the ground, and help his friends finish off the hunt. Or maybe the hunt's done already. Gods, that would be great. Then all he'll have to do is stand up and pretend to be okay.

He can stand up, right? He's pretty sure he can stand up.

But the longer he lies here, the weirder it seems. He can't smell the dust or the desert shrubbery. He can't hear a battle going on, or even the aftermath of one. No one's calling his name, and unless they just out and out left him – they wouldn't just leave him, right? – someone ought to be coming over any second to see if he's okay.

Prompto licks at his lips. He cracks his eyes open.

What greets him isn't a wide blue sky dotted with clouds. It's a white ceiling, set with a white light.

"Wha?" says Prompto, blearily, and no sooner has the sound left his mouth than Noct's darting into his range of view.

"What the hell were you thinking?" says Noct, and his voice is harder than Prompto remembers hearing it pretty much ever.

Something in his memory shifts and turns over. He remembers lying on the ground, groaning – remembers Noct pouring potion after potion over him.

Three? Four? He's pretty sure there was a hi-potion in there, too, and sweet Shiva, those things cost an arm and a leg.

Prompto goes very still.

Noct's face is kind of intense right now – it's angry and betrayed, more upset than Prompto's seen him since he got the news about his dad. Guilt kicks in like a campfire guttering to life, and Prompto glances away toward the wall, unable to meet his eyes.

"I thought I had it covered," says Prompto. "And anyway, I didn't want you guys to worry."

"Well, congratulations," says Noct. "I've been sitting here for an hour and a half worried out my godsdamned mind."

Prompto tries for a smile, but it feels a little sickly around the edges. His stomach's churning like he might throw up. "Sorry, dude. Kinda dropped the ball on this one, huh?"

Noct doesn't smile back. He's just staring, with this flat, uncompromising sort of expression. "The doctor didn't know if you were gonna make it," he says.

Wait. Hold on.

"What doctor?" says Prompto, but even as he says it, his brain is putting together the pieces. The white ceiling. The white lights. The thin sheets he can feel under his fingertips, right now, if he runs his hand back and forth.

He yelps – jerks – tries to sit up.

It's a terrible idea. His ribs decide to do a reenactment of how it feels to have a garula throw you into a rock, and he wheezes and hunches over from the pain, then discovers that hunching over makes it worse and outright whimpers, instead.

He can feel Noct's hands on him, touching his shoulders – can feels Noct pushing him back, laying him out flat. Prompto clamps his eyes shut and just lies there for a second, dizzy, waiting for his thoughts to reassemble themselves.

When he opens them again, Noct's face isn't quite so hard and unforgiving, anymore. He just looks tired.

"We tried everything," says Noct, "but nothing was working. Specs says potions don't help as much when the wounds are so old."

Potions. Plural. So that wasn't a nightmare. He really did just burn through hundreds of gil all by himself, in a matter of minutes.

Every word out of Noct's mouth feels like an arrow, and the arrow is tipped with poison, and the poison curdles in his stomach, an awful lot like self-loathing. Prompto licks at his lips, and he says, "So you took me to a hospital."

Noct nods. "In Lestallum. They gave you some blood, and Iggy and Gladio went to get an elixir." His eyes are fixed on Prompto's face, intense and searching. "You're gonna be okay."

He's not gonna be okay.

He's already running through the math in his head – all of those potions, and a hi-potion, and an elixir, and a  _hospital stay_. Gods, he must be up into the thousands by now.

Prompto lets his eyes drift away toward the wall, just so that he doesn't have to see Noct's face. He says, "Look, I'll do some jobs for Vyv, okay? I'll pay you back."

"What?" says Noct.

"You know," says Prompto. "Landscapes and stuff. For his magazine."

"What?" says Noct again, only this time it comes out a bit strangled.

Prompto pauses. He glances back over and finds that Noct is flat-out staring, face very still, brows drawn down. He looks like someone just slapped him, and Prompto cringes a bit, because  _he_  put that look there.

"I know," he says, all in a rush. "Too little too late, right? But I'll make it up, I swear."

Noct doesn't say anything. He opens his mouth, like he wants to, but nothing comes out. 

"Gimme like two weeks," Prompto says. "Tops. I got this."

"You're worried about the money," says Noct, slowly, like he's working the thought through his mind.

"I mean," says Prompto. "We kind of all are at this point, right? After you told me to lay off the potions, I saw Iggy working on the budget one morning." He tries another smile, crooked and self-deprecating. "I guess I never thought about how much gil I was burning through."

"So you stopped burning through it," says Noct. His brow is creased, and his eyes are very bright. He's got that look on his face again, like someone just hit him.

Prompto can't stand that expression. He forces a laugh, and his eyes skirt away to stare at the crisp white sheets of the hospital bed.

"Well," says Prompto. "Tried to, anyway."

"Prompto," says Noct. 

In five years of friendship, Prompto doesn't think he's ever heard his name said in quite that tone, quiet and somber.

He ducks his head. His fingers search out the place on the sheet where the thread is beginning to unravel, and he picks at it, carefully. He says, "I know, dude. I won't screw it up so bad next time."

Prompto watches his own fingernail on its destructive quest. He watches the seam on the blanket. He bites at his lip, and he doesn't look up at Noct's face.

"You're an idiot," says Noct at last, voice rough. "You know that?"

Prompto hunches his shoulders in. And okay, yeah, that's – he probably deserves that. He's going to have to figure out some kind of system, here. Maybe he can ration the potions out? Like one for a week, or something. Pour a little bit on a new wound, just enough to help the healing along, but keep the rest for later. That might work.

If he was half as good in combat as any of the rest of them, it wouldn't be a problem in the first place. If he could haul a sword around like Gladio, or had a hint of Iggy's gymnast's grace, or warp like Noct, he'd be pulling his own weight already.

But he's not especially strong, or fast, or agile. He's just Prompto. He _is_ an idiot, to've thought he'd do anything but slow them down.

He opens his mouth to say so. He opens his mouth to tell Noct that he knows.

But before he can get the words out, there are arms wrapped around him, solid and strong and clinging. Noct's fingers are buried in the fabric of the hospital gown like he's holding on for dear life, tight enough that the old bruises ache in protest. But he lays off the ribs, and it doesn't hurt all that bad, and anyway – anyway, Prompto is too busy gaping to try and squirm out of the embrace.

"That's not what I meant," says Noct, and his voice is shaky. "I just wanted you to be careful."

Prompto's not quite sure what to do with his hands. He sets one, awkwardly, on Noct's head. The hair is stiff with gel beneath his palm, and it crinkles when he pats at it. "I know, buddy. And I will be from now on. I promise."

Noct doesn't let go. "You're missing the point," he says. "I don't care about the money. You were getting _hurt_ all the time."

Prompto peers down at his own fingers and the thick, black hair poking out from in between them. "Huh?"

"It was never about the stupid potions," says Noct, and his voice is thick. He pulls back all of a sudden, dislodging Prompto's hand. "It was about keeping you in one piece – and now look at you. Gods, we're _both_ idiots."

There are tears standing at the corners of Noct's eyes. His face is starting to go a blotchy, mottled red. 

Oh, thinks Prompto, distantly.

But Noct's still talking. He's saying, "If you try and pay me back a single gil, I'm never talking to you again. You hear me? If you ever even stub your toe, you had better use a godsdamned potion for it."

Prompto just stares. His throat is tight all of a sudden, and his eyes are burning. He says, "But. But I."

"I mean it," says Noct, and his voice breaks on the last word.

Prompto swallows against the lump in his throat. He nods a little, unsteadily, because he's not sure he trusts himself to speak.

He doesn't know what's showing in his face, but Noct's staring at him, hard, like he plans on memorizing every line. At last, finally, he reaches out to slip his hand over Prompto's.

The palms are warm and calloused; Noct's fingers tighten in a squeeze. He says, "Specs and Gladio'll be back soon. We'll heal you up and get the hell out of here. Sound good?"

"Yeah," Prompto manages, when he thinks he can talk again. "Sounds great."

**Author's Note:**

> The request was for:
> 
> "He uses a lot of potions during battles (and Iggy too btw, but my focus here is Prompto), and the guys have noticed it. Being short on money, they try telling him to try not to use up as much potions as he does. In other words, they tell him to be more careful. He takes the words a little bit more to heart and refuses to use any curative, embarrased because now that he thought about it, he did waste a lot of potions and antidotes on himself.
> 
> He has been getting wounded in battle, nothing serious, but the wounds have been building up. he doesn't tell the bros, and one day, he gets attacked and gets poisoned in the middle of a hunt. Again, he doesn't tell the bros, thinking it will pass if he lets it be. But the poison in his body starts feeling worse, and one day he just collapses in the middle of a fight, eaning him another injury bigger than the other ones he has received, one more letal.
> 
> Cue the bros getting him to safety and inspecting the damage, noticing all the wounds from past battles and the new one, as well as the ugly wound were the poison came from. When they try using the curatives, the damage is too big for them to work (they would've worked if Prompto used the curatives at the beginning when he got the wounds, but the poison had been in his body for a long time and it's messing with it), so they rush him to a hospital."


End file.
